


Rain Season

by Urania_baba



Series: Songs of Skyrim [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Angst, Emil-Centric, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urania_baba/pseuds/Urania_baba
Summary: When Emil returns to his birthplace he not only walks the present-day streets of Markarth but those of his memories as well.





	Rain Season

It was pouring. Emil had never liked the season of Rain’s Hand in Markarth: it was cold and dreary and everything stank of coal soot and rust, the stone turning slick and treacherous with the constant rains.

He hadn’t thought he would be back, not so soon.

If only Jarl Igmund hadn’t requested assistance with recent Forsworn raids on merchant caravans; if only Sigrun hadn’t taken a look at him and remembered he was a native; if only he hadn’t been assigned the duty to come with her; if, if, if!

It was no use to dwell on such thoughts, but the past was still too fresh in his mind. He hadn’t been ready to come back, maybe he never would have been, but here he was now, dismissed while Sigrun delivered her report. He might as well deal with what had to be dealt with. Maybe that way he would finally stop having reasons to return.

Distractedly making his way to the Treasury House, walking down from Understone Keep, he failed to notice the guard that stood in his way.

He almost walked into the burly man and was about to apologize when he was roughly shoved away. If not for the three years of Legion service under his belt and the weight of his heavy armor he would probably have, most embarrassingly, fallen on his ass.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face around here again,” the guard spat, and it dawned on Emil that this man was probably someone that he used to know, hiding behind the uniform and the full helmet.

He schooled his face the best he could into indifference, “If you have a problem with the Legion being here, you can take your concerns to Jarl Igmund, citizen,” he said.

He saw the man clench his hands, and barely noticed his own stance adjusting in response to the palpable hostility. “... You better keep your goddamned nose clean while you’re here,” the guard finally said and walked past Emil, pushing him aside with the shoulder.

Emil walked on, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. _Just keep going. We leave tomorrow, just keep going…_

He stopped in front of the doors to the Treasury House; for the Ancestors, he didn’t want to do this! But there was no one else. Only him to deal with this here and now. _Only useless, milkdrinker Emil_ , a voice taunted in his head.

He braced himself, resisting the urge to slouch and cross his arms across his chest. He squared his shoulders and raised his head to look straight ahead, and stepped inside.

“Emil Västerström to see Thongvor Silver-Blood, please,” he told the pretty Breton woman at the reception.

She looked him up and down, making Emil realize he had dropped into parade rest without volition, and felt an incongruous wave of shame wash through him.

“I’ll announce you,” she said, after a moment, and walked down the left-hand hallway behind her and through the door at the end of it. “He will see you now,” she told him once she returned, gesturing at the room she came from, “Go right ahead.”

Thongvor Silver-Blood was sitting at the head of a long stone table, quite characteristic of the Dwemer dwellings of Markarth, and he sneered at the first sight of Emil, not even bothering to stand up or to offer a formal greeting.

“Finally came back to pick at what your father left behind, like the vulture you are?” were the words that left the man’s mouth.

Emil tried to draw strength from his training, trying to force himself to react as if to Sigrun’s cry of “ _Attention!_ ”, looking ahead, not moving a muscle. 

“I’m here to settle any loose ends regarding my inheritance, since I came of age after I left to live with my remaining living relatives,” he intoned, not looking at the Silver-Blood. He wished he had J’Lalli’s penchant for talking in smoothly delivered insults, a passing thought that made his chest hurt with fierce longing, and hoped this moment of weakness didn’t show too much on his face.

“Ah, yes, Torbjörn,” the man continued, “how could I forget that spineless little worm.”

“I’ll need to revise any documentation necessary, so if you’d be so kind as to get them for me. Please.” His voice was clipped, his jaw hurt; he refused to rise to the bait.

Thongvor slowly stood up, silently glowering at him, and retrieved a leather envelope. He stepped up to Emil, thrusting the envelope against his chest hard enough to make him stumble a step back. He held it there, and growled: “Ancestors spit on you. I’m glad your mother isn’t alive to see what became of her son.”

Emil took hold of the envelope, once Thongvor let it go, before it dropped to the floor. He did his best to hold on to his temper, keeping his face still as the cold stone. He felt his teeth painfully grinding; nothing would have been more satisfying than punching the teeth out of the man’s mouth but he managed a curt nod and marched out before he made the mistake of assaulting the owner of Cidhna Mine in his own study.

The pouring rain greeted him outside, the cold, dank air stinging his face. He walked down with intention of reaching the Silver-Blood Inn, doing his best to drown the scream of rage and frustration clawing at his chest; at the last minute, however, he simply kept walking.

The twists and turns of the city were still ingrained in the back of his mind, his feet carrying him without a hitch, tracing the familiar steps up to his family home and down again after finding it too painful to stand at its door. There was just one place in the city that felt welcoming. He let his memory carry him there.

That lone hallway just under the Temple of Dibella still looked the same.

Emil felt the tension in his chest relax. No one would bother him here, like no one had bothered him when he was still a young boy, escaping the jeers from his peers and the silence at home.

He watched the rain fall, letting the afternoon waste away with the greying light.

He loved Markarth from this vantage point, from up above, without having to deal with the cruel and painful things people did. It was easy to imagine the city was just another lonely ruin, enduring the ages.

Night was falling by the time he decided to finally go to the Inn and pay for a room. He made his way back and couldn’t help stopping at the Temple’s door. This place had been a beloved refuge as well. At least until the Priestesses had strongly rejected him when, in naive, youthful ignorance he’d asked to be initiated into the priesthood.

Only Senna had advocated for him; his only friend and his teacher, even when the others hadn’t approved of Emil.

He wondered what had become of her.

Just then, as if prompted by his very thoughts, the door opened and a familiar voice spoke: “Are you coming in or not? Don’t just stand around lurking on our doorstep.”

“... Senna …” Emil said, seeing her startle at her name being called. He was probably a stranger in her eyes, under the cloak of night. He took his helmet off and raised his eyes up to her, hoping, calling her name again, quieter.

 _Please…_ The prayer rose in the back of his mind, half formed in fear of disappointment, of being forgotten.

Senna breathed in, stepping down the doorsteps, rising her hands to smooth Emil’s disheveled hair, tucking it behind his ears to see his face in the half-light coming through the temple’s open door. “Emil?” she whispered, her hands falling to his armor covered shoulders, her eyes trying to look him all over. ”Look at you!”

Emil ducked his head, bashful, remembering what he had looked like the last time she saw him, soft and plump and pale as dough, before the things in his life he had believed set in stone derailed completely off the tracks.

“Is the Legion treating you well?” She continued, peering up at him, and in a dizzying moment Emil realized he was now taller than her.

He nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice a bit rough. “It was difficult at first, but it’s better now.”

Her hands covered his cheeks, and Emil felt like crying. “Are you happy?”

He thought of his life, the pain and the hardships and the people in it, then and now. He thought of J’Lalli, of their night together in Solitude, and his heart swelled. “I am.”

Senna looked into his eyes, searching, worried and loving, and a smile gentled the lines of her face. “I’m glad,” she said, and tugged Emil into a hug that lasted a small eternity.

“I should go,” he murmured, “It’s late and we leave early tomorrow.”

“Duty calls, huh?” She teased, and the smile on her lips could be heard in her voice, still, just like he’d always known. “Or is it _someone_?”

Emil was pretty sure the look on his face was answer enough, going by her laughter.

“I’m glad I got to see you, Senna,” he said.

He felt lighter after saying goodbye, maybe for the last time, but there was nothing to regret in that this time.

Markarth’s ghosts could stay behind, in the past, where they belonged.


End file.
